


kind or cruel

by vol_ctrl



Series: StaticLoveTune Week Series [4]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Art, Banter, Dreams, Fantasy, Flirting, M/M, Pining, Static Form Vox, StaticLoveTune Week, staticlovetune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24918685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: Alastor has strange dreams of his adversary. Why does he dream such a tragic Vox?(Artwork done byKyng.)
Relationships: Alastor/Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: StaticLoveTune Week Series [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1797553
Comments: 11
Kudos: 107





	kind or cruel

**Author's Note:**

> DAY FIVE: MEMORIES/DREAMS
> 
> oops I made it sad.
> 
> Accompanied by some beautiful artwork done by Kyng ([@kyng_sg](https://twitter.com/kyng_sg) on Twitter) ♥
> 
> Many thanks to [@NightExcision](https://twitter.com/NightExcision) and [Kyng](https://twitter.com/kyng_sg) both for beta reading & their excellent suggestions.

“Hey, Az-Ax-Alastor!”

The name barely registered through the bloodlust. The scene before him was a blood-spattered canvas, red red red through radio dial eyes.

“Leave sz-sx-some for the rz-rx-rest of us, eh?”

Vox shone like a beacon through the red, a glowing silhouette of neon that burned worse than the sweat and blood dripping into his eyes.

“Whz-whx-what’s the point of being kz-kx-king of the hill if az-ax-all your constituents are the cx-cz-corpses beneath your feet?”

That chipped, jagged voice began to draw him out of the darkness. He heard laughter--not Vox’s, but his own.

Vox kicked what was left of a wretched Sinner out of the way with his boot. “How  _ dz-dx-do  _ you keep your figure, Al?” he asked, screen dominated with a grin that rivaled Alastor’s own as he surveyed the leftovers of the Radio Demon’s feast.

“Well…” His voice was low as a needle on a record, scratched through radio distortion. “I don’t sit in front of a television all day…” His madness was subsiding--or redirecting. Vox had that effect on him. No matter how he might try, he could not dismiss the insufferable media mogul.

“You shz-shx-should try it sometime,” Vox insisted. “Might help ya chz-chx-change up your rz-rx-routine a bit.”

“I prefer…” Alastor took a breath as the phantom mists began to dissipate from his vision, “... to do things the old fashioned way.” He sighed, riding that indescribable high.

“Yz-yx-your loss,” Vox said. “If you sz-sx-spruced up your rz-rx-routine, ya could have rz-rx-ratings beyond your wz-wx-wildest dreams!”

Alastor chuckled, that feral animal still lurking just beneath the surface, hungry enough to lick some of the blood from his claws. “What a  _ sad  _ existence you must have… If it’s  _ ratings  _ that you dream of…”

Those carmine eyes glittered on Vox, and for once, the ever talking head was silent.

“You’d best take care of whatever business it is you have here, Vox…” Alastor smiled in the face of that rare silence, relishing it. “The scavengers will be here soon. I hear there is quite the market for  _ scrap metal. _ ”

. . .

Alastor does not sleep often. When he does, there is some ritual to it. A long bath, soft pajamas, freshly washed sheets. When he sleeps, he does not always dream. But when he does, he dreams of the strangest things.

Not the carnage and eternal hunger he so enjoys in his waking hours. No, he finds himself satiated of that. Well, nearly. Sleep often comes after a particularly satisfying slaughter, that neverending hunger addressed and put to bed, as it were.

In his dreams, he finds himself sometimes in Vox’s penthouse. Or what he imagines must be Vox’s penthouse. Vox is there.

Sometimes Vox hardly even looks like himself. In place of his screen, there is a head. Almost a head. A skull wrought of static, a snowy television display stretched like canvas over a skull. No eyes, just shadowed hollows of roving visual noise. But there is a mouth. Of course there is a mouth.

He knows it to be Vox, even though his voice is different too, lacking the usual speaker amplification and filter.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he says through a grin like a black hole framed in pixel-edged fangs. His unfiltered voice is the stuff of nightmares. Alastor likes it.

Vox is drinking scotch. He only drinks scotch when he’s like this, without his screen.

Alastor wonders why he dreams that Vox drinks scotch. Or why he dreams that he has a head without features under that screen, horrible and hidden. Or why he dreams of Vox at all.

He strides over to Vox. Takes the scotch from him. Vox lets him have it.

The air between them has a soft-edged, celluloid quality. Vox’s penthouse is brightly lit and furnished in a way that suits Alastor. Mid-century; modern, but in an art deco sort of way. Vox has collections. A set of old televisions along one wall, like trophies. Old telephones on another, arranged like modern art. He even has a vintage radio. It looks like the one Alastor had before he died. Funny he would dream it up here.

“Like what?” Alastor replies as he brings the scotch to his nose.

“What will people think?” Vox’s usual brash bravado is dialed down. Or perhaps it’s just the sound of his voice, raw and scratched through with a roiling swarm of static.

“Since when have you cared what people think?” Alastor chuckles as he takes a sip of scotch. Mm. He must be craving it. Or so full from his last meal that his dreams are vivid. It burns on his tongue and down his throat.

“Oh, it’s not  _ my  _ reputation I’m concerned about.”

Alastor places the glass back in Vox’s waiting hand. “How considerate of you,” he bites back.

The grin on Vox’s ruin of a face can only be described as  _ fond. _ A strange look for him to dream on Vox’s face, to be sure. But not unfamiliar. He’s dreamed it before.

He leans toward the arm of Vox’s chair. Vox moves his arm to invite him. The motions are so well choreographed in his dream. Natural. Then again, things always are, between them. A complicated dance--each never more than half a step behind the other, ever prepared for the next move.

“Are you really?”

“Really what?”

“Concerned about my reputation.”

“Being concerned about reputations is my business, sweetheart.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Vox is still for a moment. Alastor dreams he has stumped him. He smiles.

Vox takes a sip of his scotch, his eyeless gaze finding something other than him to look at.

Alastor takes that static jaw in hand and corrects his gaze. Yes. As it should be. On him.

Alastor’s fingers tingle. The static sizzles where it makes contact with his fingertips. He traces the line of Vox’s jaw. It has a handsome, masculine shape. He wonders if he dreamed hard enough if he would see features in that static. But he has never imagined what Vox might have looked like in life. He doesn’t care to. The demon he knows, his worthy, insufferable, beloved-reviled adversary, is that ridiculous television-headed nuisance. A perpetual broadcast of every expression upon a brightly lit screen for all to see. No subtlety whatsoever.

This static face, however, has subtlety. All the same, Alastor can read it like a book. Vox looks at him with such longing.

“What a pair we make.”

Alastor smiles and settles into his perch on the arm of Vox’s chair. He crosses his legs and folds his hands. “I’d say we deserve each other.”

“Would you.” Vox sits back, hooks one arm over the back of his chair.

“Eternal damnation would be awfully boring without you, darling.”

Vox sighs, a rise and crash of static like a wave on a beach. His gaze drifts once more.

Alastor bristles; imperceptible to the eye, but a vivid feeling within himself. He leans forward, claws flexing as they settle on Vox’s shoulders. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown  _ bored  _ of me…”

He can feel Vox shiver--not just skin-deep, but down into the current that sizzles under his flesh.

“I’m never bored with you, Alastor.”

His tone, the sound of his name on Vox’s nails-on-chalkboard voice, pleases him.

“I suppose I do deserve you. Like this,” Vox continues. “You trapped in that form, me trapped in this one.”

Alastor is curious. Has he dreamed Vox is self-aware? That he knows he is in a dream?

“What’s wrong with this form, darling?” Alastor asks sweetly.

“Yours or mine?” Vox grins.

Alastor returns a smirk. “Let’s start with  _ yours. _ ”

Vox lifts a hand. Electricity dances over his sharp neon-tipped claws as he covers one of Alastor’s own. Alastor’s muscles jerk. He can feel the fire racing up his nerves. He bites his lip as the sweet pain tingles through him.

“Just wires and circuits.”

Ah, not self-aware, then. But an interesting thought for him to dream up for Vox, nonetheless.

“Current stuck inside a skin suit.”

Where had that thought come from? Perhaps he had extrapolated it from Vox’s inability to eat or drink, the leer of pure envy on others who could indulge around him. Or from the manner in which Vox would sometimes gamble dismembering a part of his body during combat for the advantage. Was it the obvious ego-salving vanity? The way in which he proselytized his persona as God’s gift to Hell? Obvious ploys to hide some seed of self-doubt, of self-loathing for his artificial form.

“Nonsense. You’re flesh and blood.” Alastor draws his free hand over Vox’s shirt, feeling the muscle of his chest. “You’re just as fragile as any other…”

Vox doesn’t shy from his touch. He doesn’t tremble. He breaths into it.

“I’ve seen it,” Alastor reminds him. He takes Vox’s hand in his own. His talons are sharp and hard as blades, but his palm… He traces his thumb along it, finds the veins of his wrist easily. He drifts toward his adversary, his hand at the other’s throat. Not to squeeze the life  _ out _ of him, but to find proof that it’s  _ there _ \--such as it is in the afterlife.

“I can almost taste it…” Alastor whispers as his thumb presses past Vox’s collar, against a vein thrumming--with electrical current, but also with a pulse. Blood that would spill were Alastor to nick him just-so.

Vox is relaxed in his grip. Not a tense muscle to be found. He has even tilted his head, allowing Alastor to find that sliver of bare flesh upon his throat.

“Why do you do this to me, Alastor?”

Alastor slides his hand down Vox’s wrist, along his forearm, and in perfect time, choreographed, Vox’s hand comes to his shoulder, slides along his back.

“Do what?” Alastor asks innocently. He knows what he is doing. But he cannot for the death of him know why he dreams of it.

“You know what it is you do to me… like this, with your shadow, it’s…”

“What is it I do to you?” Alastor presses. His own pulse rattles inside his ribcage.

Vox looks at him with such…  _ desire. _ It’s painful. For him. Alastor relishes it.

Alastor is drifting further from his perch, floating closer. Vox’s hand is upon the back of his neck, dangerous claws turned to a delicate whisper through his short-shorn hair.

“You would never…” Vox almost laughs. The sound is humorless, the breath pulled right out of his lungs as Alastor comes closer.

“You believe in absolutes?” Alastor asks in a surprised tone.

Vox actually laughs. “The likelihood of this scenario is highly improbable. How’s that?”

“I would have thought  _ you  _ of all people would enjoy a dream.”

“Even the kind ones are cruel.”

“Kind or cruel…” Alastor draws close to those virulent fangs. Even in this form, the image of teeth curved around the surface of a skull, there’s something flat about them. The hum of Vox’s static grows louder as he draws closer, whether from proximity or autonomic response. “It’s a matter of perspective…” 

Static sets over those gleaming fangs and asomatous lips meet his own. Alastor kisses the bittersweet look on Vox’s face, and the media demon visits him with such tenderness, Alastor knows he must be dreaming. He is sure a crude man like Vox would never be so gentle.

Alastor does not desire such things in the waking world, but the draw of his greatest adversary--not that he would  _ ever  _ let Vox know he held that title--is inexorable. Inescapable. That his hunger to consume Vox, to dominate his feeble attempts at superiority in every way, should manifest like this in dreams is not totally illogical. As far as dreams go, it seems perfectly natural.

An escape from reality, indulgence upon one’s unspeakable, unthinkable desires, the loss of the ego and the rampant freedom of the id--of course he should find himself in the amorous embrace of his adversary.

“Why does it make you sad?” Alastor asks. By the merit of dreams, he says whatever is on his mind.

“Am I supposed to believe that you care?” Vox asks. His grin looks pasted on; ill-fitting, like a badly tailored suit. “Now that’s a step too far.”

“Give me a better answer than that,” Alastor says, disappointed by the evasive reply. It’s perfectly in character for Vox, yes, but Alastor wants to hear Vox say something unexpected.

“Bold of you to assume I’m sad,” Vox bluffs. He bluffs badly. Always has.

“Try again,” Alastor commands patiently. If his unconscious mind insists upon such fantasies, it should have the decency to give him something  _ fantastical. _

“Because it’s not real.”

Alastor tilts his head slightly to study Vox. “You’re a very  _ dreary  _ approximation of Vox,” he muses critically.

“Sometimes I think I hate you more like this,” Vox says and plants his hands on either side of his chair, as if he means to get up and unseat Alastor from his lap.

Alastor only leans into him and locks the claws of one hand into the back of Vox’s chair, pinning him under gaze and the immovable bar of his arm. “Only sometimes?”

Vox relents and sinks back into his chair. Not like he has a choice. 

“I find it hard to believe this isn’t something  _ you  _ dream about…” Alastor says coyly. “Perhaps we share the same fantasy…” The idea makes him laugh. “How tragic.”

Vox answers with another humorless laugh. It sounds so hollow, the despair rattles in Alastor’s chest. “Is that what makes it so sweet?” Vox asks, that static brow fraught above his grin. “The  _ tragedy  _ of it all?” He leans into Alastor’s now, leans into the tragedy.

A thrill lights through Alastor as that twisted grin presses toward him, as those hands become accomplices in his dream desires. Forbidden touch electrifies its path as Vox surrenders to his own latent desires. Alastor’s scarred canvas of flesh feels thin as tissue paper as current tears through it. He dreams that charge illuminates him, voltage-branches of light just beneath the skin.

Vox’s power  _ reaches  _ through his consuming darkness. Alastor can feel it seizing his muscles, waking his flesh. It makes his skin crawl, not with the unsolicited too-much touch of a stranger, but with a desperate, somehow familiar grasp. He could so easily slip from Vox’s hands, slip through his fingers like sand, fade away with no more than a thought. Vox knows this--and that knowledge speaks through his touch.

Alastor consumes the power and the light, greedy shadows feasting on that forever hum-glow, until all that is left is something small but fierce and bright. A light that will never go out. A light that burns away the shadows, that shines exponentially brighter in the embrace of darkness.

“I can have all the fantasies I want... but this one hurts the most.” The words are far away, and yet so close that they’re inside his own head, echoing in an auditorium for an audience of one.

That current doesn’t flicker. It burns brighter. Charged talons sink into him, hook deeper than mere flesh, deeper than bone, deeper than marrow. In this blinding embrace, Alastor is wiped clean of detail, a being of nothing but shadow in the grasp of some desperate light that is only more brilliant in the presence of darkness.

“Can you feel it?”

What he is meant to feel, he’s not sure.

There is pain, not like agony, but like something festering, a wound that refuses to close. Alastor feels it. It’s the smell of something forgotten burning, that satisfying despair of a seam coming undone, thread unraveling, a shroud lifted to reveal the horror underneath.

He is infected, sick with a taste of burning plastic on his tongue that is not his own. He is consumed by a feeling that is not his own. Could not be his own. Nothing within him could burn this bright,  _ ache  _ this much.

It is terrible ecstasy. The sweetest agony he has ever known. A thousand-thousand lampreys of electrical current, parasites with fingers and teeth clinging to the darkest depths, chase back the night.

He is consumed. It’s a beautiful little death, an embrace so all-encompassing that it is he who is burned away until all that is left is a rotten pit.

.

. .

Alastor retreats. His insides are scorched by a brand of desire that he has never known. It goes far beyond the desire for the flesh, for the touch of lips and the tempting caress of fingers. This is a desire for his very essence, for the thing that lives  _ within  _ the shadows that he shrouds himself in.

He is eviscerated, a husk that has been burned through and marked by his adversary. This is his darkest desire, to be inhabited by his foil, to have all of his darkness drunk down without a second thought.

He is distantly aware of his physical body. Of the simple cloth of his nightclothes, the scarce-used weave of his sheets. A draft visits his cheek, and he feels it raw as sandpaper. That place between dream and wakefulness, between returning to his body and floating in the ‘scape of his own mind, stings nerves, a ghost of that electrical current.

The darkness of his bedroom is a balm against the too-brightness of his dreams. Gone is the cold light of Vox’s imagined penthouse, the screen-glow glare of his static skull, the fire of fuse and circuit channeled through him.

Perhaps he should have stayed… Perhaps he should have seen the dream to its resolution. What would Vox have said? After illuminating all that he is, an empty cup filled--or perhaps a full cup spilled--

The ache remains. After all the light is gone, the ache remains.

.

. .

.

Vox sat alone in his penthouse.

Alastor’s shadow had gone. Left as suddenly as it came.

He wondered if Alastor  _ could  _ feel it through his shadows, through his dream state.

Although the shadow-brand remained stamped on his heart, he hoped not.

He hoped these dreams were kind to Alastor, as cruel a reality as they might be to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! The prompt list for #StaticLoveTuneWeek can be found [HERE](https://twitter.com/vol_ctrl/status/1273978843804495873?s=20), and you can follow me on Twitter [@vol_ctrl](https://twitter.com/vol_ctrl) for more ~


End file.
